First One Hundred
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: The first of the one-hundred themes challenge with AltMalMar and AlexDes.
1. Chapter 1

001 Introduction—

"So, if you got the chance to meet the infamous Alex Mercer, what would you do?"

He looked at the woman who looked _way_ too much like Rebecca to be healthy for him as he recovered from the Bleeding Effect, pursing his lips. He cleaned the glass, looking at the ceiling as her and her friends waited. One of them was watching intensely, crystal blue eyes just begging him to say something nice. Eventually, he sighed and shrugged, setting the glass down and resting his chin in his hand on the counter.

"I'd punch him."

Rebecca's twin laughed and glanced at the blonde woman watching him, who looked almost upset.

"And then I'd tell him to get over himself."

She stopped laughing. "W-what?"

He straightened, fixing himself a drink. The girls were watching him like stalkers eager to hear some gossip.

"I'd punch him, then tell him to get over himself."

"Why?" one asked, giving him the bedroom eyes as if that would work.

"Because he needs to get over himself and move on. Hell, I lived through the Infection, and then proceeded to be kidnapped and mentally tortured. I'm still a recovering wreck. If I can still be happy, then he just needs someone to kick him in the ass and tell him straight."

"It's not that easy—"

"I don't care," Desmond said, cutting her off as he tipped back his drink. "Neither is getting over all the shit that's happened to me. He needs to get over himself. No one _actually _thinks that the mysterious vigilante is anyone other than him. Fuck, the man's an idiot, and he just needs to get in touch with reality, dude. And that's something coming from _me._"

There was silence as he cleaned his glass and set it back in its spot. He paid them no more attention as he finished closing up, walking them out. As the girls left, the blonde one that had looked upset at the punching comment paused. He locked the door and turned to her.

"Would you tell him that to his face?"

"Tell him what?"

"What you said earlier?"

"Yeah, and I'd punch him, too."

Before he knew what was happening, there was an address and time inked on his hand. The blonde vanished with the other women.

"Well, looks like I got a date," he murmured as he looked at the writing.

And sure enough, the next day, he was waiting outside the café he had been told to go to, his hands in his hoodie pockets as he watched the crowds. He didn't even flinch when the ground exploded next to him and the others started screaming and panicking—he was surrounded by morons. He looked over his shoulders to see the Alex Mercer standing there, looking every bit as menacing as he remembered on the news after the Infection. He met the man's gaze once, then before he knew what he was doing, his fist was connecting solidly with the man's face. The man actually stumbled, clutching his nose, and Desmond huffed as he turned back to gaze at the surprised onlookers.

"You're a real pussy, you know that?"

He watched as the man straightened, glaring at him only briefly before something akin to amusement spread over his features. He didn't back down, staring him in the eyes. Alex looked down at the pavement.

"Yeah. Now, I do."

* * *

><p>002 Love—<p>

He wasn't sure when, but sometime between that punch and the time he moved Desmond in from that dinky, terrible apartment he had had before, he had begun getting the weirdest illnesses. For instance: he began to _hate_ going out. He liked staying home. And he found himself watching Desmond every chance he got, whether he was cooking, or mulling about, or even sitting beside him.

And whenever Desmond would touch him, that's when things got super bad. His skin would crawl beneath his touch, and he would be torn between moving closer and pulling away all at the same time. He wasn't used to human contact. He wasn't used to the gentle touches Desmond would sometimes give him. He didn't think he could handle something like that. He didn't know what to do with himself. He couldn't breathe properly around him or walk right when he knew he was going to see him. He wanted to make sure that Desmond knew he could be _everything_ for him. He wanted the responsibility of Desmond. He wanted to be there for him during his mental breakdowns. He wanted to be the one to make sure that he was okay. His companion didn't give two shits and shake about the touches as if he didn't even know he was doing it.

And all of his emotions were out of whack. He was so much more concerned about what Desmond needed, what Desmond wanted, what Desmond felt that he began to get worried that the man was taking up too much of his attention. So when he heard "Goodbye Apathy" and "Accidentally in Love" by those bands Desmond seemed to like so much (and he had bought him those CDs on a whim just to see the slight curve of his lips), he finally figured out his illness. He was in love—but he would deny it as long as possible.

He had confessed this to Dana, who always helped him decipher his feelings, and she had taken that information and utilized it to her advantage. When Dana confronted Desmond about how Alex felt, it was as if she had burned the poor man. It was as if he hadn't realized he was in love. Alex could feel himself get angry, confused, and perhaps slightly hurt. He had been sitting on the couch, not actually paying attention as Dana whispered to his partner, and when the man yelped and ran into some pans that were drying, naturally, Alex looked and figured it all out.

Turns out, he had had a bad lover. Shaun Some-thing-or-whozzit had broken his heart. And so had a woman named Lucy—although he seemed even more reluctant to talk about Lucy than Shaun. He got the feeling there was more to Lucy's heartbreak than what was said. Nevertheless, Desmond slowly warmed up to him, and he remembered getting his first kiss on Christmas. It was shy and testing, overly cautious as a man who _had_ just had his heart broken.

Alex swore mentally he would never do that to him.

* * *

><p>003 Light—<p>

To Alex, Desmond was the Virgil of Dante's _Inferno_ or the angel in the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar. Despite the frantic moments when Desmond had a panic attack or when he broken down into a fit, there was something irreplaceable about the man. He didn't mind the Bleeding Effect at all—he reminded him that he _wasn't_ the only one with incurable voices whispering crazy things in the back of his mind, phasing through walls and trying to take over his mind. It told him that he _wasn't_ alone in the giant, crazy world—that he _wasn't_ going to have to suffer by himself.

Still, it pained him to see Desmond going through almost the same stuff he was going through, that he was forced into this Hell—this dark and foreboding prison with seemingly no light at the end of the tunnel. He hated that his partner had to go through such painful memories and that he had to live with them.

What surprised him most is that he felt more pained about _him _going through this rather than himself. He supposed that he had a natural barrier. The virus itself was programmed to block out the memories that he didn't want and keep them stored safely away until he needed them. Desmond didn't have that ability: it wasn't in his genetic coding.

Sure, he struggled with all the people he had eaten—all the side effects and unpleasant things. But Desmond was suffering worse because he was _human_, and humans couldn't file things away in their brains as easily as a virus programmed to kill.

Nevertheless, his partner held a certain kind of hope for him. When he would sit on the couch and comfort him from a nightmare or an all-too-realistic moment of the Bleeding Effect, he would feel like the most powerful man in the world. He felt as if he were finally proving his worth. He felt as if he wasn't just a monster, a creation, or an experiment. He finally felt as if he could begin to move forward.

And when Desmond would finally calm down and give him that soft, thankful smile, Alex found himself almost smiling. Every time it happened, he had a thought, and if something was repeated enough, the virus knew that someone could start believing it. So when he looked down at Desmond as he relaxed into his hold, or when Desmond was milling about and would stop, flop on the couch, and ask how the football teams were doing, or when they walked down the streets of Manhattan, he would let that thought cross his mind time and again. When he would join Desmond on the couch as they ate ice cream from the tub, he knew that he could convince himself yet. And he was right: he began to believe what he had _yearned_ to believe for years now—he was becoming human.

Of course, it helped that Desmond was right there, every step of the way, shielding him and guiding him with his own light, just as Virgil had guided Dante, or the angel protected Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fires.

* * *

><p>004 Dark—<p>

The dark was Altair's favorite thing. It hurt less than the light, and he didn't have to shield his eyes in the middle of the night because the moon was bright and glaring. No, the dark was a welcome guest, one that seeped into the castle, through every crack and crevice. It enveloped the novices in their beds, the assassins out on their missions. It spread like honey over every stone and creature, swallowing them whole as it continued its mission to cover everything. It was a comforting caress like a lover's, and Altair had always been one to welcome it readily.

It made missions easier. In the dark, he could approach, kill, and leave without someone noticing. Blood was harder to see in the obscuring black rather than in the glaring day. It made it harder to see the person collapse. Of course, the assassins were at the advantage in the dark. The gift of Eagle Vision they had made no distinction of "light" and "dark." It made walking at night easy. However, there were few assassins who did have it—Altair was just a lucky one. There were a few others within the order, and Altair believed that Malik had it even if he _always_ denied it.

He could creep in the dark much easier than in the light. That made it much easier to gather Intel about a target. He could slip around the home in the middle of the night and listen in on everything they were saying, cloaked in the shadow of the night. His ears would greedily eat every word they said as they failed to realize they were being listened in on. He could peer into a hole or a window with little problem and not be caught. The shadows were a wonderful thing, and the dark was even better.

But there was something even better about the dark. Something that, if exposed in the light, would force him to flee. Something that, if exposed in the light, would cause his life to come tumbling down around him. Something that, if exposed in the light, would ultimately be his ruin. And it wouldn't even be from the assassins, who accepted everything, who passed few judgments so long as their mission was accomplished. But whispers spread, and there would be someone who wanted his head.

The dark gave him the cover he needed to love Malik. It gave them the cover they needed to fondle and caress and grope under the blankets, shedding their clothes as snakes shed skin and pressing closer—touching, wanting, _needing_. It let him pound into Malik night after night without the fear of being caught, and it let him fill his most primal urges as well as his most feminine ones. He would never admit that when they spooned together under the covers or kissed softly and languidly that his heart skipped a beat, but the darkness made all of that okay.

Altair liked the dark.

* * *

><p>005 Seeking Solace—<p>

He used to seek solace in his brother's room, sitting on his brother's cot and just _being_. When a mission went wrong, no doubt that Altair or Abbas would rub it in, and he would respond with anger, as per usual, but then his anger would leave him, and he would be upset and lonely. He would trudge his way into his brother's room and sit on his cot, and his brother would come over and give him a hug. He would talk in hushed tones with his brother, and eventually, Kadar would act like enough of a goof that he couldn't help but smile softly, shaking his head and telling his brother he loved him. His brother would smile, kiss his cheek, and tell him to stop looking so down because he would always have _one_ fan. Too bad "always" rarely happened.

So when "always" failed to happen, he sought comfort in the fact that he was away from everything. He was nowhere near Solomon's Temple. He was nowhere near Masyaf or that wretched prison of a castle they lived in. He was in a secure, bunkered-down bureau in the rich district of a rich city. He was a few minutes away from everything that he could've needed without the added pain of walking up and down a steep hill. He made friends with the guards, and they would sit together sometimes, smoking from a hookah and swapping tales about fights. They became more loyal to him than to their job. Of course, he didn't stop them from harassing Altair. He couldn't tell them he was affiliated with them. He found solace in being away from everything, and he promised himself he would stay here forever.

But when "forever" came to a screeching halt, he wasn't surprised at all. He merely blinked and went with the flow. He didn't, however, appreciate that he was moved back into the one place he had been avoiding. He didn't appreciate that he had been roped into helping restore the Order. He had liked Jerusalem and didn't want to leave. But everywhere he looked, he was reminded of things he didn't want to be reminded of, and he was left with no more places of solace.

Until he found that the Grandmaster's arms were a good way to hide from everything. His arms were a good way to hide from his pain and find comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable world. He could tuck his face into the crook of his neck and sit there, in his lap, with his fist curled in his robes and the Master's arms around him, rubbing his back, and he could ignore all the pain for a while. He could be comforted in the quiet of the Grandmaster's chambers and the soft sound of him breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the soft ruffle of his hand rubbing over his back. And when he felt himself drifting off to sleep, he could find comfort in the warm body beside his.

* * *

><p>006 Break Away—<p>

Altair had seen the relationship between Malik and Kadar. It wasn't that he disapproved of it: it was just that he disapproved of it. He didn't care if they were fucking or kissing or what have them: it was that they were so dependent on each other. It was almost frightening. It was a big weakness, and Malik needed to stop indulging in it, or else Kadar would never become the assassin he needed to be. They relied on each other as a parasite relied on the host. Kadar was becoming a soft spot for Malik, and Malik was stunting Kadar's growth as an assassin. This was going to be a problem—one that he regularly confronted them about.

That was why Malik hated him so much. They were friends, but Malik acted as if Kadar_ wasn't_ his biggest weakness, and Altair knew that no matter the fact that he could match him blow for blow in a ring, or that he could kill just as efficiently as the rest of them, if Kadar kept being Malik's greatest weakness, then there would be problems down the line. There would be problems if Kadar was ever captured, or if something bad happened to him, and he didn't want to be there when it happened.

But when Kadar _did_ die, Altair certainly wasn't expecting the result. He had warned him to break off from him before he became too dependent on his little brother, but Malik hadn't listened. So, when he had accidentally gotten Kadar killed, he most certainly wasn't expecting _this._

He was replacing Kadar—or, rather, Malik was making Altair fit the hole that Kadar had left. Malik was growing in and around him like a creeping vine. He was worming his way into his heart like a parasite and making it impossible not to think about him. He was replacing Kadar, and if that was what Kadar felt like, then no wonder he was in such deep shit as a novice. The man consumed his thoughts and actions, and Malik didn't even try to deny he was doing it to the Grand Master, just demanding he shut up and hold him at night or fuck him silly into the blankets. He used Altair's weakness against him.

But that didn't mean it was just for his gain. Malik seemed to become dependent on him for comfort. It was his way of dealing with the pain, and he couldn't stop him from worming his way into his every thought and action, into his dreams, into his bed. He needed to break it off before things got too bad, before things became like Kadar.

But he got the sinking feeling things were already that bad, and that now that he was an assassin, there was nothing that could make history repeat itself. He needed to cut off this overwhelming relationship.

But by now he knew that if he tried to remove Malik from his life, then he would be removing a big part of himself.

* * *

><p>007 Heaven—<p>

The novices all whispered in the hallways, concerned and curious. It was an astounding landmark for the Grandmaster assassin. He would shuffle down the hallway in his old age, a rosary of Maria's planted firmly in his hands, mumbling to himself under his breath. He would have this little knowing smile on his lips, the beads on the rosary well worn by now and replaced several times. They knew that he didn't know the prayers that went with it: they knew that he didn't particularly support the Catholics, so the question that went through everyone's mind and whispered under everyone's breath was, "Why?"

They huddled together like women to gossip, contemplating just why he carried around a rosary. None of the assassins were religious. It was just the way they were. Some even went so far as to hate religion, saying it wasn't fair that they were protecting others and would be damned for doing so. Nevertheless, even they were silenced when he walked by, talking quietly to himself. None of them saw that charming little smile on his lips that would've said he heard them.

They had roped Sef and Darim into asking for them. Sef had approached his uncle, Malik, who was always with them, and Malik had just rolled his eyes. He didn't know, and he blamed it on the stupid little things. Altair was obsessed with the Apple, and it probably told him to do so. Sef had shrugged, saying he was just curious because it wasn't like his father. When he left, he knew that Malik would pry into him. The man was just like him, and when he was curious, he was sure to keep pushing until he found out why.

Darim asked his mother, and she had laughed quietly, sitting in the comfortable bed as she recovered from a back injury. She was getting older now: all of them were. She simply told him that he was an intelligent man, and that his logic was sound. They prayed together every night. He tried to pry a little more, and she simply shook her head, saying that if they knew, they would wrinkle their noses in disgust and make those gagging sounds that all little kids were prone to making. Darim was thoroughly offended.

When later that night Altair returned to his chambers, his lips pressed against that little crucifix figurine as he talked to himself, hobbling along in his old age, Malik confronted him. The novices huddled by the doorway, listening in eagerly. When his best friend asked, Altair gave him that small knowing smile and told him. When he didn't understand what he meant by the fact he had all he could ever want right there and right in front of him, Malik scowled. Altair had tried to explain it, but some things were just too complicated, so he showed Malik what he meant.

As far as Altair was concerned, God had given him Heaven, and if he wanted his soul so badly, he could have it.

* * *

><p>008 Innocence—<p>

After the birth of his first son, he truly felt sorry for his wife, pitying how much pain she had gone through. He had always thought that when he had his first son, he would strut like a rooster all over Masyaf and perhaps even brag to Malik. Everything was a race between them. He thought that he would be the one to come strutting in like the king of the world and look the man straight in the eyes.

"I have a son," is what he would say.

And he would have won. He would've been able to say that he finally beat Malik, and that he was never going to lose again. Of course, Malik wasn't even married—he had no reason to, since he had both Altair and Maria to sleep with—since they shared everything equally. Everything was theirs: what Malik had, Altair had, and what Altair had, Malik had. That was the way it worked.

That didn't mean that they didn't have a friendly rivalry going on to get things first. It was just how they worked.

Nevertheless, he had expected to get an overwhelming sense of victory—he had been waiting anxiously to see just who's child it was, since both men shared the same woman. But when Darim came out, there was no denying that he was Altair's. Those golden eyes were unmistakable, and he couldn't wait to tell Malik the child was his.

Still, when he first held the child, he was stunned into silence. The baby was so tiny inside of the swaddling clothes. He was afraid he might crush him. Those golden eyes were staring straight at him, and he felt trapped where he stood. The doctor was astonished at how quickly the child quieted, how strong he was, but Altair's heart was beating too fast and too loudly to hear him. The child in his arms was _his_, not Malik's, and he looked so tiny and frail that Altair was afraid to move for fear of dropping him or crushing him or, Heaven forbid, _killing_ him. He would never live with himself if he took such an angelic life from the brotherhood.

And he knew that Malik was standing by Maria, talking quietly to her in hushed tones, and he was sure that they were laughing at him as he continued his staring match with the newborn baby. He swallowed thickly, and the baby yawned mightily. He tensed. He didn't know what to do. For once in his life, he was useless. He was terrified. He was _proud._

And as the child fell asleep, he was released from the trance he had been in, his head snapping up to look at his two lovers. Maria was shaking her head tiredly, and Malik _had_ been laughing at him. Still, there was no sense of winning, he noted absently. There was no sense of "I was first." There was just a small smile creeping its way onto his face as he looked at his wife and whispered, "Thank you, Maria."

* * *

><p>009 Drive—<p>

Altair loved missions. He loved getting on the horse and riding far away, pushing the horse to its limits to get there faster. He loved slipping into the crowds and gathering Intel. He loved the death. He loved his life.

And there was always a passion beneath it: something was always there to make sure that he was kept moving. He was never cold at nights, not even if he was forced to sleep under nothing at the desert nights, because the memories of the sun on his back as he rode to his mission were all he ever needed to stay warm. It was funny how the human mind worked sometimes. He felt right at home where he was, wherever he was, because that was the place he needed to be. He loved to do his missions. He loved everything about it.

His favorite part, though, had to be the return. Returning home after a successful mission was the best, that power behind him. It was what compelled him to push the horse harder, push it faster, push it father until it was worn out completely. He would have to stable it for the night and switches horses in the morning because they were so thoroughly _used_ from him that he couldn't use them for almost a week afterward for any strenuous work, and it pissed him off that they lacked the same power and motivation he had to get back.

Regardless, it was actually getting home that made him happy. It was actually getting off the horse and strolling up to Masyaf, every nerve in his body alight with satisfaction. He knew that he would be rewarded, and he knew that he would be praised, and if he was lucky, he would get so much more than that. There was something that he would get that no one else would ever get, no one else would ever dream of getting. It was all his, and he would never trade it in for anything else.

It started out with him strolling into his room arrogantly. He would enter like a king, strutting and smirking and basking in his job well done. And then there would be some sort of degrading comment, some sort of derogatory statement that set his nerves on fire and stirred his most basic of needs into action. His roommate would scowl at him, and Altair's smirk would simply grow. He would pull out a feather from his back pouch, a beautiful eagle feather collected from one of the perches he frequented and stained with the blood of his target, or a soldier, or a horse, or what have him, and that scowl would turned to pursed lips, and even though he always denied it, his partner's eyes would light up with glee like a child with some honey, and he would hand it over delicately. His partner would examine it, set it aside where he kept all the feathers, and then came the reason why Altair always rushed back.

He would get the chance to kiss him.

* * *

><p>010 Breathe Again—<p>

It would start out simple enough. He fell asleep in Alex's arms, curled up tightly under the warm comforter and the cozy sheets. Then Alex fell asleep, much more slowly than himself. The clock kept on its steady pattern, the exact reason they bought the thing, the quiet pattern of "tick, tock, tick, tock," a soothing sound.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," went the clock.

Desmond's breathing slowly evened out, lured into sleep by the hopeful promise of a better night's sleep. His eyes fluttered closed, and he felt himself surrounded by Alex and everything the man was. The heat the virus gave off was astounding, and it never failed to make him sleepy. He could drift off to sleep comfortably.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," went the clock.

Alex fell asleep next, an internal struggle on whether to stay awake _just in case_ or to just let it overtake him. When he slept, he always had nightmares. Visions and other lives weren't usually a problem: they were tucked away neatly by the virus, hidden somewhere in his flesh until he would need it. Still, he hated falling asleep because then he would see things, and he hated it. He wasn't a monster anymore. No, Desmond had proved him otherwise, and he refused to go back to that.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

There were several hours of quiet before the twitching began. Desmond always twitched first, the remnants of his ancestors' lives bleeding in and causing him nightmares. His foot or his fingers twitched violently, then his lip curled, and he growled softly. This in turn set Alex's nightmares into motion. Alex tightened his grip on the man, snarling, his hand twitching for several minutes or his legs kicking.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," went the clock.

Then Desmond started thrashing. He kicked and growled, twisting and turning as he fought off invisible adversaries that didn't actually exist. Alex tightened his grip again and began to wrap him in the virus to hold him still, now battling an imaginary foe that he had tried to keep out. He snarled and grunted as his lover also fought.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

Desmond woke with a scream, a blood-curling, bone-chilling scream, yelling and hollering as he tried frantically to move and brush off whatever it was he saw the tentacles as. This, in turn, woke Alex with a start, who retracted the tendrils immediately and snarled as he grabbed his head to try to control himself.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

When they calmed down, they looked at each other. No words were said as they settled back down. Alex spooned against him, running his fingers through Desmond's sweaty hair to assure himself that Desmond was alright and the man was still alive, and Desmond cuddled back as his pulse calmed, soothed by the kissed and the touches what were meant more for his lover than him. They fell asleep again until dawn.

And night after night, "Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

And night after night, their routine was a gridlock.


	2. Chapter 2

011 Memory—

It was hard to tell who was who sometimes. It was hard to tell who was Desmond and who was Alex, and who was the person standing there in their skin. It was hard to tell if they were the same man they were ten minutes ago, a day ago, or even a year ago.

Their minds were playgrounds—playgrounds for different lives, different memories, different _people_, and it drove them crazy. Alex's was better under control: he could tune them out much easier since it was in his biological makeup to do so. Desmond wasn't so lucky. Alex had heard about people with schizophrenia and bipolar manic disorder, and it was as if his lover had the worst of both diseases, and still had something more to make it even worse. There was no medication, no shrink, no treatment to quiet the whirlpool of voices and images inside their heads. What it always came down to, something Alex was so used to knowing and permanently disturbed by, was that all they had were themselves. None of Desmond's friends could make it go away—rather, they just made it much worse for him. None of the "treatments" from that machine called the Animice could help him. All he had was Alex and himself.

But Alex felt positive he could make it. He felt positive that Desmond was strong enough to heal. He could relate to what was going on, and that was what probably helped the man the most, but he knew that his lover was strong enough to make it through. It was hard to stay completely positive about anything that involved a loud cacophony of voices screaming shrilly in their ears and causing them to see things that didn't exist. It was hard to stay positive about anything that involved both the military and the police watching them like a hawk. These were the things that made it difficult to heal.

Things got better, though. Slowly. For the longest time, they seemed to stand still, and their nights never got easier, but their daytimes slowly did. At first, there was nothing Alex could do when Desmond had a fit other than just restrain him and hope for the best. Not even two years later, all he had to do was caress Desmond's cheek and that healthy shine would return to his face, the cloudiness would vanish from his eyes, and he found his lover smiling sheepishly at him.

"Thanks," Desmond said quietly, whenever it would happen and he finally calmed down.

Alex scoffed and leaned in, kissing him firmly, thoroughly claiming that mouth he had come to enjoy and pulling him close. It was his favorite thing to do, and when he pulled back, his lover was out of breath, a slight flush to his cheeks. Desmond always swallowed thickly, then grinned like a goof.

"Keep it in your pants," Desmond chastised playfully.

He never did.

Every single fucking time.

* * *

><p>012 Insanity—<p>

The first time Desmond had a fit, Alex was surprised. When he first met the man, he could hardly hold a cup of water he shook so badly naturally if he wasn't under high stress as at the bar. Now, he pushed open the door, his eyes wide.

The TV was smashed into a million pieces; the couch flipped and torn, and the pillows de-stuffed. The coffee table they kept important things on had _claw marks_ across it, _teeth marks_ in the legs. The remote was destroyed completely. It was as if a honey badger had been turned loose in the living room and obliterated what little they kept there. The walls had dents and holes, leading into the narrow hallway to the bedroom. And Alex was alarmed when he saw blood on the doorknob, and he pushed open the door.

Desmond was in the remnants of the bed, a nest built from the mattress and the springs. The bedframe was fortifying the mattress, ruined. There were teeth marks and splinters all over the posts and the floor. Blood was spattered across the blankets and ripped up pillows. He stepped in, and he heard the most pathetic _whine_ come from his lover, followed by an inhuman _snarl_.

The man was squatting in the nest; his fingers fisted tightly in his hair and pulling hard enough Alex feared he was going to pull it out. Blood was caked down the side of his head, thick and foreboding. He was surprised Desmond was still conscious from all the blood everywhere, ominously coloring his skin and making him look even crazier. Rather than risk him, he sent two tentacles to slowly pry his hands away from his head.

Turns out, Desmond had taken off his left ring finger, cursing in Arabic as he was restrained and thrashing wildly, calling out for one of the ghosts he regularly saw. Alex frowned as he tightened his hold on the man and picked him up out of the nest. He needed to get him to the hospital.

And that was quite a scene when he ran into the ER, Desmond attached to his back and howling like a demon as he struggled to keep him restrained long enough for the doctors to get the sedative in him. They gave him odd looks as they carted him off and sent him through the doors to the operation room.

He had only felt worry like that one other time, and that was when Dana had been stolen by the Leader Hunter. But at that time, he had no idea that it was called worry. He had still been discovering himself and his emotions. When Dana came running in, she hugged him tightly, asking him for all the details and letting him talk and talk and talk until Desmond was taken care of, and he was allowed to see him. Dana simply shook her head, smirking, and told him he had it bad.

And when Desmond finally woke, Alex had never been happier to see his lover wake up before.

* * *

><p>013 Misfortune—<p>

She seemed to follow him everywhere. She lurked around every corner, played at the corner of his every thought, and stalked him outside Alex's twenty-second story flat. She was the cause of his paranoia.

He had first discovered her on the Farm. She had looked so beautiful when he first saw her, alluring and seductive, calling him outside the gates of the town. He had followed her in the dead of night, stealing out with just his backpack and a few provisions, an extra set of clothes. He saw her true face then—terrible, destructive, _hated_. She refused to let him go.

He ran out of food. He was attacked by the coyotes that prowled the desert. He had to nurse himself back to health in a run-down shack and suffer through the peeling of his sunburn. He had to start looking over his shoulders. Despite how terrible she was, he was never going back to the Farm. He would persist with her until she either found someone else or killed him.

He made it to Manhattan just barely. He was holding on by the skin of his teeth, poor, destitute, and hungry, fed by soup kitchens and clothed by strangers with a good will. He began to shun her, working at the bar and snubbing her whenever he could with his earnings. She hated it, and struck back with the Infection. He was a fool to think he could get rid of her. Once the Infection had passed, she still haunted him and caused him undue amounts of paranoia.

She must have gotten pissed off when he bought the motorcycle, because then she led the Templars to his doorstep and tried to smother him with her affection for the next two years. She took Lucy away from him, forced him to murder her with his own hands. She took his sanity by forcing him into the Animus. She pressed him to go for hours in the contraption, unraveling his thoughts and fraying what little memory he had.

Then, when he had fallen in love with Shaun, she got mad. She worked slowly, effectively, haunting his nightmares and making him incompatible for anyone to have as a lover. She caused him to have fits and unholy shouting matches with invisible people. She caused him to shake and tremble uncontrollably, to become a mentally unstable wreck and cause Shaun to kick him out.

Now, as he cuddled with his Alex on the couch, he couldn't help but smile. It always confused his lover to no end. He had noticed that his stalker hadn't come around in a while. Sure, he still checked over his shoulder every now and then, but she hadn't shown her face for a long time.

"Why are you always smiling, Desmond?"

"I think I've finally outsmarted my stalker."

Alex raised an eyebrow for further explanation. Desmond snuggled back farther into his lap.

"She stalked you, too, for a while, but we've out-smarted her."

"Who is she?"

"Miss Fortuna."

* * *

><p>014 Smile—<p>

For Desmond, smiling was nothing new. There was almost always a grin plastered on those handsome features of his, stretching and pulling at his lips as if it had attached itself and refused to let go. He couldn't get rid of it. He was so happy that everything was over and done with, that he had a wonderful lover, and that he was healing. Everything was "coming up roses."

Alex had given him so much. He had given him his life, his love, and everything he could have ever hoped for. Desmond was no longer living on the streets, scraping up a living however he could and praying he could get a bite to eat. He was no longer shivering in the cold of a Manhattan winter, with just his hoodie, his jeans, and his sneakers to keep the chill out of the ramshackle apartment he could hardly afford. No more nights on the road, asleep in the dirt and hoping nothing would attack him.

He was warm and safe inside of Alex's flat. He no longer had to worry about making a living, taking up a job as a bartender just for kicks and giggles. He didn't need it, because Alex's paycheck from the military was more than enough to live on, but he missed it—and it made him feel as if he were adding something more to their relationship. He no longer had to worry about eating because Alex kept the fridge stocked for him to browse at his leisure. There was _always_ food, to the point where Desmond would donate his pay from the bar and any free time to the same soup kitchens and clothing banks that had taken care of him on the run. He was no longer shivering: he had warm clothes and blankets to wrap around himself, clothes for the summer and clothes for workouts. He never kept more than two or three of each outfit despite Alex's protests, donating the other clothes to help men and women and children who needed clothing because he _knew_ what it was like. Alex didn't. He slept in a king-sized bed with warm flannel sheets in the winter and light cotton in the summer.

So when he decided that he was going to take the initiative to _ensure_ that he wouldn't ever have to leave the life behind, because he was human, and humans were selfish, greedy creatures, he talked to the people at the soup kitchen. One of the old women gave him her engagement and wedding ring. He grinned and thanked her profusely.

Now, he was at home, his heart pounding in his ears as Alex stared after his proposal. And then he got the best thing he had only dreamed of. Alex smiled—not that amused, knowing smile, but a soft, quiet smile. Not the forced, unsure smile, but a genuinely happy subtle curve of the lips, Desmond knew he would treasure it forever. He made it his goal to make Alex smile like that as much as possible.

* * *

><p>015 Silence—<p>

Desmond knew the Bleeding Effect would never fully leave him. There would always be times where he was caught between two different worlds. Noise helped ground him: the hum of machinery and loud noises of the city living below them always helped. The television was always on, talking quietly in the background, perpetually set on SyFy. Ghost shows and crime shows were always in the playing, _World's Dumbest_… coming on in the evening to give him a laugh and a dose of real life.

Nevertheless, he wouldn't ever fully escape. There would be times he would blink and be in Italy, or Jerusalem, but it didn't matter, because the visions were always the same and were always good. And as long as they were good, he was okay.

When he was in Italy, he would open the door to Leonardo's workshop, the quiet hum of the TV replaced by the quiet murmur of the apprentices. He would walk in, stand in the sunlight and smile softly as he looked around, taking in the scattered, half-finish paintings and the messy room. Leonardo would be on his stool, and he would stalk up behind him, snatch his hat, and laugh as he dodged the hand to smack him. He would converse briefly in Italian until Leonardo called him, "Desmond," and then he would blink and be back to normal as Alex kissed him.

When he was in Jerusalem, he would open the door to the bureau with Malik in it, the quiet hum of the TV replaced by the noise of the streets of the city. He would walk in and peek in through the door to where Malik always stood. He would pace over, glance around to make sure they were alone, then lean in and kiss him chastely, pulling back just in time to catch that small smile before it turned into a frown. He would turn and plop down into the cushions, listening to Malik pace around in the room as he closed his eyes and relaxed. The time would pass slowly, and he reveled in the companionable quiet until he felt the cushions shift beside him. His eyes would open slowly, and he would see Alex for a brief minute settling down before Malik was back, leaning in and kissing him.

Then he would pull back and there would be Alex again, leaning back in for a second kiss as he cupped his cheek and slowly, leisurely, made out with him as if they didn't have anything else to do. He would feel Alex take control of the kiss, eventually slipping his tongue in and luring him into straddling him. Desmond's arms would wrap around his neck, and he would hum when Alex ran his hands over his thighs to curl at the small of his back. The TV's white noise disappeared, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of _them_ as they kissed.

And which ever happened, he always ended up happy, which was always fine with him.

* * *

><p>016 Questioning—<p>

When he dropped into the Jerusalem bureau, he wasn't expecting anything. He most certainly wasn't expecting to catch Malik with his chin in his hand, staring forlornly at a piece of parchment with an unfinished map on it. He paced over quietly.

"Mal?"

The man's head shot up, and he looked positively horrified before he cleared his throat and scowled. "What, novice?"

He had gotten away with his old nickname. Something was wrong. Altair blinked, reaching out and cupping Malik's cheek before leaning in and stealing a kiss. It was simple, a slight press of lips on lips, no tongue, no heat, nothing more than just lips touching like a secret.

"What happened?" he asked as he pulled back.

Malik scoffed and began to tidy the counter, even though it was already immaculate. Altair watched him closely, noticing the stiff posture and the jerky way he moved things around.

"I don't know—"

"Don't give me that crap, Malik. You may fool novices, but I am no longer one."

"Are you sure?" Malik sneered, and Altair rolled his eyes.

There was silence a while longer as he slowly stopped moving things around and rearranging them. Altair never stopped looking at the man, noting how he refused to look up and meet his gaze. That worried him: Malik was never one to back down.

"I… had a bad run-in with a guard. It was nothing. He has been thrashed soundly and knows his lesson now."

Altair snorted. "Then why do you mope?"

Malik scowled. "I do not need your help, Altair."

"Tell me, or I will hunt him down and ask."

"You'll do that anyway."

He shrugged. "It is your choice."

Malik huffed, placing his hand on his hip. Altair met his gaze, smirking slightly. Malik waved his hand dismissively. "I lost some ink I had bought. He threw it to another while I kicked his ass."

Altair raised a hand.

"It was gold-infused for decorating. I have saved for a while now."

Altair snorted, turning around and walking out without a second thought. He could hear Malik roll his eyes as he left, but it wasn't until he had his fist planted against the guard's nose he even considered what he was doing.

"Why?"

"W-what? It was that damn cripple—"

He kneed him in the stomach, earning a grunt from the already defeated man.

"Why?"

"I'll give it back! I swear!"

"Give it to me now."

He watched as the man reached into his armor and pulled out a small inkpot, smaller than the ones Malik usually bought. He took it with a snarl and pushed the man away before walking off. He stopped at the entrance of the alley, looking over his shoulder. Now as good a time as ever. He threw a knife as the guard got up and dusted off, grinning as it buried itself in his neck and caused him to bleed out. He paced back over, coating the eagle feather he had grabbed for Malik on top of one of the roosts in the blood from his neck.

When he gave them back to Malik, he smirked at the smug, happy glint in his lover's eyes.

* * *

><p>017 Blood-<p>

There were times when it was all too much, and they were much too stressed out. Things just built and built until they snapped. There were so many different ways to deal with the anxiety and stress, and they had their favorites.

For Altair, it was slipping a knife into their bedtime activities, using it for wicked purposes to make Malik bleed as the man cried out in pleasure. He loved to trail his fingers in his lover's blood, smearing patterns on the dark skin and feeling Malik's eyes, hazy with pleasure, watching him closely as he pressed the knife into his skin. His tongue would follow the lines of blood, lapping it up lovingly and enjoying the heavy taste of it on his tongue. Malik would gasp, curling his fingers tightly in Altair's hair and pressing his head closer when he would lick the cut, begging for just a little more pain to remind him of the life he used to have, to make him feel alive again.

Sometimes, Malik would have the knife. Altair's wounds were always a little deeper, a little more vicious, but he didn't care as cool blade pressed against his erection and had him groaning. His wounds bled a little more, stung a little sharper, smarted a bit more in the morning, but he needed them to, and knowing that it was _Malik_ giving him those wounds made it only better.

But that wasn't always enough. Occasionally, they would wander out in the night and slay a Templar, haunting his shadow like death itself. They would kill him randomly and drag him into a secluded corner where, like animals, they would indulge in a simple act of mutilating a body. They would cut open the belly and stick their hands inside, reveling in the warmth of the blood over their hands. They would play with the dark liquid, washing their hands and their faces. They would rub it down over their necks, scrubbing themselves as if they were washing, feeling their tension melting away. It was a twisted way to live, but when their eyes would meet after they did wash, and the tension snapped, they would fuck like animals over the dead body, disgracing it and mutilating it further. They would paint themselves in blood and semen and allow themselves to become completely unrecognizable.

And when morning rolled around and they were sated, they would tidy up the body minimally and leave, dressing in just their outermost robes as they slid in the back entrance to the bureau and bathed each other in the water bin that Malik kept back there. They would clean their robes and empty the bin, refilling it as if they hadn't just played with a body and as if they were just normal humans. They would do nothing the next day, relaxing among the pillows with each other and sleeping for the next twenty-four hours.

This was their life. It was who they were.

* * *

><p>018 Rainbow—<p>

He didn't give Malik a chance to object. He jumped out of the bureau after the storm and ran to the nearest viewpoint, scrabbling up to look at the sky. It took a bit of searching, but once he found it, he leapt and ran back to the bureau, grabbing Malik's wrist and pulling him along. The man protested loudly and violently as he hauled him out of the gated area and onto the roofs, challenging him brazenly to see who could climb the tower quicker, which Malik readily accepted just for appearance's sake, and Altair couldn't be half-assed that Malik _actually won_ fair and square because he had something else on his mind.

"I win, Altair. Now—"

"Look," Altair said, pointing into the sky.

Malik scowled, but did as he was bid. "What, to see the storm-destroyed…"

Altair smirked as Malik trailed off, his eyes firmly attached to the sky. Sure, Jerusalem had been ripped apart by the storm. There were loads of damage and tons of things to fix, but it didn't matter. Sure, it had rained, and the winds had blown everything around. The streets were flooded and slowly drying out, but it didn't matter.

Altair stepped up beside his partner and slipped his hand into his, trying to mask the soft smile behind a smirk, but he knew it was useless. He turned his head toward the sky and looked at the colors arching beautifully across it. The red was so vibrant it was astounding, and all the color underneath transitioned effortlessly. It was hard to see such bright colors usually in the desert, but this was a perfect rainbow. He had to share it with Malik. He squeezed his hand lightly, and Malik startled, looking at him.

"Huh? What, novice?" he growled.

Altair smirked. "I thought you would enjoy it."

Malik's eyes trailed back to the rainbow, and he nodded slowly. "It is… quite impressive."

"Isn't it? I thought you might enjoy it."

"It's the first time I've been outside the bureau in quite a while—but this was certainly worth coming out of the bureau for."

Altair nodded once, looking at his lover as he watched the rainbow. Malik had always had more of an appreciation for color than he had, and he knew that there was no one who would love it more than his partner. He was silent for a moment, content to let Malik enjoy the scene, before he started getting restless again, never able to hold still for long. He pulled him closer, leaning in and kissing his cheek.

"Stop it, novice. Let me enjoy the view. Go and fetch my ink for me at the market. The vender will know you."

Altair scoffed. He would, eventually, after he was done spending precious few moments with his lover. He stood there patiently for a few more minutes before grabbing Malik and spinning him. He pulled him close, gave him a charming smirk, and kissed him firmly, deeply, before leaping from the post and running to do his task.

* * *

><p>019 Gray—<p>

Desmond loved Alex. He loved him dearly. But there were some things…

"Alex, you're thinking in terms of black and white again. Try thinking in terms of gray. It helps: I promise."

The man had the most annoying habit of thinking in terms of black and white. He would slip into a depression when something didn't go just right, when his vigilante patrols didn't go quite right, when he tried to show Desmond that he did love him dearly, and the night tanked because he wasn't quite up-to-date with humans and reality. It was then that he would fall back in on himself, brooding quietly and acting like a child. He would smile and sit beside him, pull him into a hug and try not to laugh. But when he would start to reminisce about the days of the Infection, which his depression inevitably would lead him too, Alex was almost inconsolable, and Desmond would have to show him just what he meant by "gray."

"Alex, you're not thinking in terms of gray."

"I can't think in terms of gray."

"Yes, you can."

"How so?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"It was my fault—I started it."

"Okay, first off," Desmond growled, "we've been over this one a thousand times. It was not you that started it, it was—"

"I'm not talking about Doctor Mercer. I'm talking about Elizabeth Greene."

"Look, babe, she would've escaped sooner or later."

"Not necessarily—"

"Yes, necessarily. You saw how bad the inside of Gentek was. She would've eventually stood up and walked out the door. She would've hatched those stupid fucking things, and they would've beaten up every one and killed all of Manhattan, and then I would've died. You wouldn't have been able to gradually build up your powers and then beat the crap out of her."

There was silence for a minute or two, and Desmond felt Alex settle into his arms.

"Are you sure?"

He could feel Alex's breathe on his shirt, and he started rubbing his back gently.

"Yes, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"Because you were just lying to cheer me up. Isn't that a human thing?"

"What? Hell no. Dude, I'm not lying to you. You saw how bad it was. It was only a matter of time before she broke out. She was turning the fucking thing into a super massive, mega ultra, kickass hive before she attacked. If she had, we wouldn't have survived. You had trouble surviving, and if you had that much trouble, the USMC would've never survived."

"You…"

"I, what?"

He could hear Alex start chuckling. He grinned, feeling his shoulders shake as he kept chuckling, covering his face with a hand as Desmond looked down at his head. His lover was shaking with laughter, trying to cover it by pressing his lips to his hand. This was usually how it ended, with laughter and a smile, and Desmond wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

><p>020 Fortitude—<p>

Alex was strong. There was no denying that. He could jump buildings as if gravity didn't exist. He could pick up entire buses full of people if he wanted. He could run into burning buildings and survive. He could do anything he wanted and get away with it because he was strong enough he could just muscle his way through everything. He was unstoppable in terms of strength and constitution, and Desmond loved it. He could see the power rippling in that virus. It was incredible.

But what actually impressed him was the amount of mental strength he had. He didn't think that he could stand the mental block that was needed to actually rush into a fire, even if he knew he couldn't die. He was surprised that he could just look at a fire, hear someone screaming inside, and then rush in without a second thought. He didn't think that he could do anything like that. He was sissy, and he was a coward. He was an assassin, who hid in the shadows and struck when no one was looking. That was his job. He could work as nothing else.

Desmond was strong. There was no denying that. He could hide in broad daylight as if there was no such thing as light. He could slip through the most impenetrable defenses and leave unnoticed. He could do anything he wanted and get away with it because he was slipperier than an eel and just couldn't be caught. He was unstoppable in terms of dexterity and charisma, despite what Shaun may have told him. He could see the power coursing in the man. It was incredible.

But what actually impressed Alex was the amount of mental strength he had. He didn't think that if he wasn't programmed to block all the memories that he could pull himself out of them, even if he knew that he had support. He was surprised that Desmond could just tense when he saw something, mumble that it wasn't true, and then blink and be okay. He didn't think that he could do anything like that. He was weak, and he was a roadblock. He was a military weapon, who used brute force and destroyed everything in his path to complete his task. That was his job. He could work as nothing else.

It was amazing how they complimented each other—both physically and mentally. They would never say it aloud, but it could be seen in their every look, their every move, and their every touch. The jealousy was unparalleled, but they were content with their lots in life. They were their complementing partners, lead through Hell to find each other, almost taken by other people, but in the end, they fit together better than peanut butter and jelly or white on rice. They were yin and yang. There was nothing they couldn't do when their put their minds to it, and they would make sure that the whole world knew it. They were unstoppable together.


	3. Chapter 3

021 Vacation—

Okay, so, maybe a vacation to the beach wasn't the best idea, Dana conceded. But she had been _dying_ to go with someone, and she knew that Alex wasn't needed for the military and that Desmond needed to get out of the bar more. They needed to connect with reality again. It always made her gag at how badly they had it for each other, their eyes meeting across a room and practically fucking each other right there. They cuddled constantly, to the point where if she _didn't_ see Desmond in Alex's arms, or touching Alex, or generally nearby Alex, she would politely ask if he had finally been surgically removed.

But she hadn't been expecting… well, she didn't know what she had been expecting, but certainly not whatever was going on. She had told the boys she was going down to the water, and Desmond had decided to come with, and Alex followed Desmond naturally. She and Desmond had teased and talked all the way down the hall and into the street. She had even pulled him to the water's edge, where he paused.

He seemed to be thinking cautiously, as if he were going to die. After a little bit of coaxing and a whole lot of good-natured teasing, he went in after her, tackling her and splashing her. She was having a blast, and she was glad he had come down with them. Desmond seemed to have a blast, too, as Alex waited back with their things, watching them both carefully.

And when they went out to get something to eat for lunch, the stupid little concession stand a ways away, she felt her investigative reporter nagging at her mind.

"So, why did you hesitate?"

Desmond grinned, looking at her as if she were an idiot. "I'm afraid of the water. Well, not me, so to speak, but Altair, and Altair has become a pretty big part of me. So…"

"You're 'afraid' of the water?"

He nodded as they paid for their hotdogs. He bit into it, munching absentmindedly. "Yeah. He had some problems as a kid."

And when someone got hurt and started bleeding, and there was a shark nearby, Desmond had valiantly dropped his hot dog to go rescue the person, and when the shark came up to bite him, Dana found herself frozen in fear.

Alex went ballistic as the lifeguard pulled the girl from the ocean, Desmond helping him. Why there weren't more lifeguards was beyond her, but Alex—Alex. He roared, and the sound was deafening, and suddenly there were tentacles _everywhere_, and they were picking up the shark and ripping it to shreds and Alex looked so _mad _that anything would dare try to harm _his Desmond_. She had never seen a beach decorated with shark until right then, and she didn't care to see it again.

That night, she let the two cuddle on the couch in the condo she had rented without any interruptions.

* * *

><p>022 Mother Nature—<p>

By all rights, he shouldn't even exist. He was a laboratory experiment, one created by a team of the most powerful researchers that were now in him, that were now a part of him. He was a genetic mutation, a freak of nature that shouldn't be there. He was born in a test tube, freed by a madman, and was now the most powerful man on the planet. Sure, there was the most monetarily powerful man, but if Alex really wanted, he could consume the man and live his life, use his money, and _be_ him.

But Mother Nature had a funny way of working. Now that the Infection was said and done, and that he no longer had to work for a living, he was perfectly content to let nature move around him. It was funny, actually, how she seemed to accept him as a mutant child of hers. The animals were less afraid of him that humans were. While humans regarded him carefully, animals just ignored him. Sure, he ate animals now more than humans, because animals were in high supply and killing more humans was just unthinkable for him, but they never seemed to care, and Mother Nature seemed to enjoy taking care of him so much.

He was certain that he couldn't die. He was certain that he would just continue to regenerate until the end of the earth, and then maybe even after that, floating around in space like in the movies, unable to die. He wasn't sure if Desmond could die. He hoped that the rumors were true, and that the apple, or the banana, or the pomegranate, or whatever the hell it was, could make him immortal. He needed Desmond like a human needed oxygen.

And Mother Nature didn't mind it. She had been kind to them for several years now, and he had lived happily. He enjoyed being a favorite of hers. She was an excellent mother, much more so than the hideous one that Doctor Mercer had had. She cared for him, blessed him, and favored him so naturally he wasn't surprised, actually, when Desmond found that he was immortal because he had killed himself during a fit and come back minutes later with a blue light glowing from the wound as it sealed itself shut. Alex had panicked at first, not knowing if he would come back, but when the golden eyes opened again, and he was covering his face with kisses, he couldn't help but feel relieved. He needed Desmond. That had been one of the most heart-pounding experiences of his life, and he technically didn't even have a heart.

He had been contemplating asking for the shot of Bloodtox until he met Desmond, trying to find his place. Desmond had proven to him that there was some greater being, something that cared for everything in the planet. He would hold his head high now.

By all rights, he shouldn't even exist, but here he was.

* * *

><p>023 Cat—<p>

Desmond held the fuzzy lump in his arms, listening to it purr as he scratched its head. It was a beautiful calico cat, an incredible mix of white, black, and brown, sleek and silky. It was beautiful. It hadn't been declawed yet, but it had been spayed or neutered. Desmond wasn't actually sure which one it was, because he hadn't bothered to learn. He couldn't help but smile as it wove in between his legs and butted against his hand. He loved the way it sounded when it meowed quietly, and he loved watching it jump and hunt. He loved playing with it and cuddling it. It loved playing and being cuddled. It was the perfect lap cat, and every time he sat down, it was in his lap. He would grin and scratch it when it butted against his hand, running his fingers over the silky fur. It would cuddle up by his head and sit on his chest at night.

He loved cats. They were graceful and elegant, and he loved this cat so much. He had found it in the shelter he volunteered at sometimes when Alex was gone on a military assignment.

He knew Alex hated it, though, and he couldn't figure out why. Whenever he would cuddle with the man, the cat would hop up and plop in Desmond's lap, pudging his legs briefly as it purred and purred, and he was so completely smitten with his new friend. It kept him company when Alex was gone, and it gave him someone to hug when he had problems with the bleeding.

So when he woke up one morning, not knowing where Alex had gone since he couldn't feel him in the bed, he frowned, stretching and disturbing the cat. It purred and cuddled in close, and Desmond figured he must have gone somewhere to get something for Dana. He sighed as he scratched the cat's head, smiling sadly as it purred.

"You're a real companion, you know that?"

The cat simply purred some more as he rubbed a knuckle at the edge of its eye. "I mean," he started. "Don't get me wrong: I know Alex occasionally has to leave, and that I leave when I work at the bar, but I mean…"

He had stopped petting it, laughing as it batted his hand to keep going, staring straight at him. He gave a defeated smile.

"Sorry, baby, I didn't mean to stop. I'm just… I wish Alex was here. You're cute and cuddly, and a nice distraction from the loneliness, but you're not Alex. Let's get you fed."

He rolled out of bed, pacing into the kitchen as pulling out the cat food. With a smile, he poured some into the bowl, and jumped when he saw Alex in the doorway, looking upset.

"Where's the cat?" he asked, and Alex looked at his shoes.

"I was jealous," he murmured.

"What?"

"I was jealous," he whispered, "but I'll get you a new one. I thought it was replacing me. I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>024 No Time—<p>

There wasn't a moment to waste as he flew down the path to talk to King Richard. He was a snarling, swirling, massive body of death. All who saw his blade died. He had to hurry: he had to rush. There was too much on the line for him just to sit around and wait back at the bureau. He screeched as he entered the camp, his eyes scanning the crowds, locating the king.

"Hold a moment! It's words I bring, not steel."

There was too much at stake, too much to lose. The king should think carefully. The king was wise. He had to make his case: he had to protect what little he had left.

"Surely God will side with the one whose cause is righteous."

Incredible—astounding—perfect. Words like that were almost too good to be true.

"To arms, assassin!"

It was hard, and it was bloody, but eventually he found himself standing over the body of Al Mualim, all his blades bloodied and a scowl on his face. He couldn't believe that he had almost lost everything he had held dear. He watched Malik come in as he stood near the Apple, and he was afraid to speak. Al Mualim was not who held him back. The Apple was not what held him back. He could destroy it.

But first he had to prove to Malik that he had been right.

Malik had tried to stop him, to tell him to go and talk to Al Mualim first. He hadn't listened. He had longed to, to follow blindly and keep the peace as best he could. To no longer deal with treachery and deceit. But things were never that easy. He had too much at stake. That was what drove him to go talk to King Richard.

He looked away when Malik clamped a hand on his shoulder. "I am impressed. You have saved us all."

"I have done nothing but bring death into our castle as it stands."

"That is not what matters."

"Then what is it that matters, Malik?"

What matter to him was that he was safe. What had driven him to fly to King Richard and hasten to kill the old man was Malik. His desire to stay blinded had been stopped by his desire to hope that he would be able to say, "I've changed, Malik. Trust me again."

And as he stood there, he debated on saying this aloud, but it would be something weak, something he would no doubt get grief for.

"Why do you avert your eyes, brother? It is clear you see more than the rest of us."

"I saw nothing other than my orders."

Malik's hand left his shoulder, and he felt it grab his chin, forcing him to look at him. He met the man's eyes with a determined, fierce look. And when he saw the expression in Malik's gaze telling him he trusted him, he realized that took no time at all to convey what he wanted to say.

* * *

><p>025 Trouble Lurking—<p>

Altair assembled the assassins before him, looking as grand as he could. His gaze swept over them, and he flicked the Eagle Vision on, watching as the wave of blue filled his vision. He could almost see the hearts of all of them beating all at once. They were the same brotherhood: they were the same person. It was all still the same, just with a different head. And as he looked over the sea, he frowned at a flickering, slightly purplish color.

Abbas. His biggest enemy.

Regardless, he had to ignore it as he started rebuilding the castle. Malik was by his side at every moment, guiding, directing, pushing. He was more than anything that Altair could have hoped for. The man was from Heaven, always patient and remembering more than Altair could, telling him his schedule, directing him from point A to point B. He needed the man more than life, and the entire brotherhood depended on them. There was so much to do that he had to leave Abbas alone. He knew that this wasn't a good idea, but neither he nor Malik knew of any other way. So, they had to leave him alone long enough to get the brotherhood on its feet. They both hoped that it wouldn't take too much time.

And when they finally rebuilt it, Altair started watching Abbas. He had spies follow the man's footsteps, stalking his shadow, listen to everything he said, everything he wrote. He could see it in the man's eyes, feel it in his presence. He was up to no good. There was nothing loyal about that man to them, and the sooner they found reason to convict him the better.

But what terrified him most was the way he looked at Malik. It was as if he were sizing him up like a cat sizes up her prey. He watched, and Altair could see the gears in his head turning. Malik could feel it. There was no denying it. The man was becoming paranoid, looking over his shoulder every few moments, staying closer to Altair than he had thought he was. There was nothing good about Abbas. Altair forbade Malik from practicing in the daylight, with anyone other than those deemed trustworthy and sworn into an oath of silence. If Abbas would attack, then Altair would make sure that he didn't know how strong the cripple was. Abbas was clever, but he was even more.

So when the door holding the logs in the trap outside the walls of Masyaf "accidentally" unlatched and crushed the man and his followers, Altair simply nodded, asking them to examine it, only to pass it off as a mouse, or the wind, or a supernatural force.

He refused to let it be known that it was himself that pulled the latch free and that it was a clone from the Apple sitting at the desk as the assassins ran in. Some things were better left unsaid.

Oh, yes, Abbas was smart and crafty. But Altair was even better.

* * *

><p>026 Tears—<p>

There were two times in his life that Altair cried. Just two. It wasn't that he was proud of the accomplishment. No, rather, he encouraged crying among the assassins. He realized that it helped. He encouraged the assassins to make bonds and cry at a funeral. He encouraged mothers and fathers to love their sons and daughters and encouraged them to cry. His room was always open to someone who needed a shoulder to cry on.

But now, the assassins were entirely sure what to do. It was the only time they had seen their Grandmaster cry.

The first time he had cried had been on the trip back to Masyaf. He would never let it be known that he did: _that_ was shameful. He hadn't cried for undoubted loss of his best friends, but for the loss of his perfect record in terms of missions. He had cried because he had been so caught up in the fact that he failed that he hadn't even thought about Malik or Kadar. He had been so foolish, so arrogant. There was nothing that disgraced him more than that night. He had been an utter fool, and he was ashamed, as he should be.

Still, he had learned his lesson. He was no longer the same man as then.

Now, he cried a second time. It was not a hard cry. The first time had not been, either, a few tears and that was all. This time was significantly heavier. There was no weeping and wailing, no sobbing and lamenting. It was a steady stream of water from his eyes as he stood there, his back stiff and straight as he watched Malik's burning body floating in the middle of the lake.

He had not cried at Maria's funeral. He loved her dearly, yes. But Malik had been there, and he had been reminded at just how much he had. Let it never be said that Malik had pulled him aside and told him Maria would be disgraced if he cried.

He said the same thing about his death.

But Altair just couldn't hold it. Perhaps the birth of his sons had weakened the walls he had put up when he was younger, and perhaps the death of Maria had weakened them further, but now, as he watched his rival, best friend, lover, burn in the middle of the lake, he couldn't stop that damnable water from sliding down his cheeks. He had lost both of his lovers, outlived them both. He had been certain he would be the first to die: he had hoped to. Maria had hoped that he would, as well, to keep him from grief he probably couldn't deal with.

And all of the novices had no idea what to do.

He retired early that night, falling asleep quickly and quietly, lost in his grief in finally losing his other lover. He just wanted to sleep.

And he did—that night and forever afterward.

* * *

><p>027 Foreign—<p>

Vendors were not something new in Masyaf. Caravans came and went all the time. They traded merrily for the things they needed, and they were off. It was a simple transaction, and Altair didn't mind it. All of the goods were fascinating, some of them almost replicas of what he had seen in the Apple. He loved browsing with Malik, chittering quietly to the man as they argued over what would be best, if they should buy something. He loved those days.

The days he didn't quite like were when he would walk with Maria or Malik down to the traders, and one of them would flirt with them. With Maria it was less of a problem. She was beautiful and elegant, and the way she walked was powerful. The way she walked near him clearly said, "Back off, jackasses. I'm taken, and if you want me, he's kicking ass and taking names." He loved Maria dearly. She was incredible.

With Malik, it was more of a problem. Much more of a problem. The vendors of the wagons would not-so-subtly imply their daughters were single, and Altair would concede that they were, in fact, beautiful—exotically enough that he would be willing to purchase their dowry if a novice did so desire one of them enough to ask. He knew that assassin partnerships were harder to maintain than if one of the parents was always at the castle.

Malik would wave them off in disinterest, trying to focus on the books in the stall or the beautiful glasswork or silk. They would pay no regard to it, still focusing on the fact that their daughters needed to marry and the merchant's life was good.

It was there Malik would send him an exasperated look. He would proudly walk over and look over his shoulder, mumbling something about how he was busy looking at something else, which they both knew was false. Malik would say something about how they needed to send some assassins to protect the caravan, but that some of the newbies with not-so-good records needed practice. Altair would agree, wondering if they would be strong enough to handle something like that, and Malik would say it was good practice. They would then mention that they might be distracted by the women, and that was never good.

That usually shut the vendors up for good, and Altair would meet Malik's gaze as they walked off from the stand. There was a mischievous glint, and Altair would smirk as their hands clasped together while they vanished into the crowd. It quite clearly told him that there was no one else he would rather be with, and he appreciated it. He had come so close to losing it all, he would fight anything to keep it—himself, animals, foreigners. Malik was his and Maria's, and there was no one else he'd rather have. He had the best woman possible, and the best friend that he could hope for.

* * *

><p>028 Sorrow—<p>

He didn't know what was worse: the fact that his brother was dead, or the fact that his enemy, friend, and lover had done it—and was completely unremorseful.

Sure, it hurt like Hell. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the wound in his chest. He no longer had his brother around. He had lost a significant part of himself. He had lost the one thing that he had valued more than life. He had lost a fight to the melancholy that was setting in. His brother had meant so much to him, and he had failed in protecting him. He had failed in the one thing that he had promised to always do.

But what hurt worse was the fact that Altair had caused it. As he lay there at night, under the blankets and thinking that he could still feel his arm, he hated him. He hated him with every fiber of his being, and when Altair actually had the nerve to show up again, he hated him enough to overflow the walls of Jerusalem. The man was horrible, a waste of humanity, and that was what made it worse. He had taken his brother and not cared one bit. He cursed him every night, every morning, every time he tried to use the arm that wasn't there and every time he thought about his now dead little brother. The man was a demon, unfit for life.

But that, too, eventually faded away. He saw the new man that Altair had become. He saw that he was repentant. He saw that he was different. Even the other Dais across the country affirmed it. But that still didn't change the gaping hole in his chest from his brother, or the missing limb.

It was something Altair would never understand—could never understand. It was the clawing, binding, chewing wrath of depression. When he would curl up at night, he felt so lonely, left to his thoughts and left to reminisce about better days. And what made it worse was that Altair tried to help.

He had apologized and tried to set things right. He had even become his lover again, but when Malik would go to grab his head to pull him in for a kiss, that twinge of sadness would return, because it just wasn't as effective without both hands, and he would never have both hands again. Never. And when Altair would shove his tongue deep into his mouth just to get him to forget, he never could, because losing an arm affected every part of his life.

He didn't give in, though. No, he trained twice as hard, trained to make up for what he lacked, and it worked. He could still hold his own against Altair in the ring. When Altair gave him a rough time in bed, he gave him a rough time back. He was still the same man.

Just minus a part of himself.

* * *

><p>029 Happiness—<p>

Desmond froze upon entering the flat. It was huge. It was everything he could've dreamed of and more. There was a living room area with a full kitchen and a door off to the side which lead to a bedroom and another door to the bathroom, and another to the closet. He was amazed. He couldn't believe that this was his house now, and that his was where he would sleep every night and would wake every morning. He couldn't believe that he would have heat in the winter and air conditioning in the summer. This was perfect. This was his home. He even had a spot to store his clothes, and warm sheets on the bed. He had carpet beneath his feet and a non-leaky roof over his head. He had running warm water for showers and clean cold water for drinking. There wasn't a bug in sight. He was in heaven.

"Welcome home, Desmond."

He could feel himself be overwhelmed by the magnificence of the apartment.

"I know it's plain, but…"

Desmond whipped his head around so hard it hurt to stare at the man. Alex was frozen in his spot as he stared, and his new lover looked a little worried.

"Desmond?"

He blinked, trying valiantly to wet his mouth again to speak. "P-plain? Alex, you, this-this is good. This is great!"

Alex's brow furrowed. Desmond did have quite a problem with shaking, and there was definitely some bleeding in there from the Bleeding Effect, but the man still loved him anyway—or so he said.

"You're shaking worse than normal."

"I am?"

He looked at his hands, only to find his hands shaking uncontrollably, remarkably so. There was no stress here, no high-pressure job. There was no loud noise here. There was him and his lover, and there was so much to be grateful for that he couldn't handle it. He laughed as he felt the trembling all over him.

"This is so great! This is so much… Alex, thank you!"

He got a surprised reaction from his lover. "W-what?"

"Thank you!"

"It isn't that—"

"It's all how you look at it," he said, trying to take a step and nearly falling if it weren't for Alex to catch him. The man carried him over to the couch, and Desmond nearly melted into it. It was soft and comfortable. "Oh, man, you are so lucky. I'm so lucky. I'm really lucky. I'm probably the luckiest man on the face of this planet."

He could feel Alex sit beside him, and he looked at him. His lover looked hopelessly confused.

"You don't know this, but this is the first time I'll actually have a warm bed to sleep in, and a comfy couch to relax on, and a sturdy roof over my head, and someplace to call home. God, I'm a lucky son of a bitch. And the best part is I get to recover here."

He was finally safe. He was finally happy. He was finally home. Life was good.

* * *

><p>030 Under the Rain—<p>

He grabbed his lover's wrist without room to object and dragged him through the hallways to the rooftop. He ignored the people walking through the walls and the cloudiness in his vision as he approached panic attack mode in the Bleeding Effect. He had to keep it from taking over, and this was the best way to do it, despite the rarity of an occasion like this. Alex protested as he dragged him under the rain, into the warm summer rain, and stood there, focusing his eyes on his lover. Desmond needed this to work as he felt himself get drenched. He needed this to cure the Bleeding Effect and make him feel like he wasn't crazy. He needed this to make him feel normal again for a few moments.

He ignored the rearing horse right beside him, and the Templars rushing to calm it as he focused entirely on his lover. In the torrential downpour, they were both already soaking fucking wet, but that was okay, because everything would be alright in the end. He met his lover's glare and stepped forward. Alex's eyes widened in just the slightest when he saw the cloudiness in his eyes, and he held his arms out. Desmond grinned and stepped forward again, placing his hands on his chest and resting his head on his shoulder.

His skin moved. It didn't just move—it danced under the water. It repelled the water, and for a moment, as he closed his eyes and just felt the man's skin moving beneath his clothes and his hands, he mused that Alex was not afraid of water, but rather, the water was afraid of Alex: Alexphobic. He smirked, curling his fingers against him as he felt those arms wrap around his back. He could feel his skin worming there, too.

Then, as it always happened when it did happen, he started laughing. Somewhere along the lines of the Bleeding Effect and Alex's moving skin, he started laughing. It was a full belly, long, loud laugh, and Alex rolled his eyes and continued to hold him as Desmond broke down into a fit of giggles and snorts. That's how it always ended. And Desmond continued to laugh until he felt his mind clear up and his life became his own again, and he pushed back to look his lover in the eyes.

Alex met his gaze somberly, thoroughly examining his eyes for any trace of Bleeding Effect as Desmond smiled goofily at him. This went on until he broke down into laughter again as his skin continued to dance beneath his fingers, and Alex rolled his eyes so hard Desmond swore he could feel it. He snorted and giggled and laughed and guffawed until he almost couldn't take it anymore; because in his fits of insanity, his emotions were so out of whack it was ridiculous.

And then Alex asked, "Are you done yet?"

He nodded, eager to go in and warm his lover up.

* * *

><p><strong>All right, so, I have just about <em>zero<em> motivation to continue any of my stories. Zip, zilch, zero, nada. Anything you'd particularly like to see finished first? Any ideas to get back motivation?**


	4. Chapter 4

031 Flowers—

Desmond was never one for "hugging trees." He thought they should be planted, grown, and cut down for humans to use. He was one for harvesting fields and using them. He had thought that his parents were psychopathic hippie freaks. Of course, that had been one of the first things he learned on the day he ran away. The old lady he had first run into had taught him his first few curse words and derogatory remarks—all of which were directed as his "flower-loving hippie freaks of parents."

He wouldn't classify Alex as a tree hugger either. Hell, the man ripped up trees to fling at the military tanks. He loved to rip them up and fling them. It probably made him feel better and manlier. He knew that he would if he could do that. The man couldn't love them. Not when they were the perfect projectiles for hurling at someone or something.

Still, Alex did enjoy life. He had taken so much of it that he was determined to preserve it as much as he could. He was determined not to kill as much as he could—but this always pertained to innocents, and criminals were not innocent. Yes, Desmond remembered, the military was innocent. They had been doing their job and doing it well. The reason he had gotten away with so much is because they were shitting-their-pants afraid of Alex. They didn't want to act unless they absolutely had to.

But it was almost funny how things went. He was in Central Park, walking along the overcrowded pathways. Cracks littered the pavement, and dandelions sprouted from the cracks, bright yellow and cheery. They were just sitting there, minding their own business, and Desmond was watching his lover with a grin.

Alex avoided the flowers like a plague. By this point, he wasn't even sure it was a conscious reaction or not. His feet fell on the pavement just beside the dandelions. They bobbed and rocked in the air currents from the people passing by. Alex seemed to think they were diseased or something, but Desmond knew that wasn't the real reason.

The real reason was the same reason why he hated buying flowers. It wasn't that it was too girly, or too weak, no. He didn't refuse to buy them because of that reason. Cut or in pots, they always died too quickly and that was too much. He was determined to preserve as much life as possible.

And Desmond enjoyed that. He honestly did. He absolutely loved it. He loved it when Alex would come home with a potted plant that someone had been trying to throw away, and he would force Desmond to take care of it because he couldn't grow anything. Desmond would nurse the thing for a while to soothe him, then sell it. It was never an outward panic, but he could feel Alex's guilt when he let the plant die.

Just another quirk that Desmond liked.

* * *

><p>032 Night—<p>

Their nights were an unsettling pattern, one that neither of them liked, but both of them were resigned to. There was always that span over the few hours that they would be woken from their nightmares—that span where they would spoon on the bed to try to calm down and just feel each other breathe. It was a reassurance factor for them, one that brought them minimal comfort in such a hideous world. They would wake screaming and yelling, snarling and sweating as if they had been fighting for hours or running as children do from the Boogeyman. It was a stupid thing, really, but that was okay.

Once they woke up, they would sit there for several minutes, calming their pulses and slowing their breathing. Desmond was the first to move, lying back down and pulling the covers up to his chin to keep the nightmares away like a child. He curled in on himself and stared at the wall, facing away from his lover. He listened to Alex's harsh breathing, felt the man shift around in their bed. Then, he carefully lay against him. It started as he felt his head dip into the pillow when Alex placed his hand on it, and his head lolled to the side until he saw Alex above him. He blinked once, twice, and a third before Alex shifted to be beside him, slowly uncurling until they were lying awkwardly there, until he was half on top of Alex until they were both uncomfortable, and then Desmond scoffed and turned on his side, and his lover followed as if they were connected. His eyes would flutter closed again, his mind blessedly blank from the nightmares that lurked in his subconscious. He felt Alex lift a hand and comb his sweaty, shaggy hair gently. He made a contented noise at the touch, enjoying the fact that Alex was touching him in such a comforting way.

He felt Alex start kissing the back of his neck, short, desperate, "are you still alive?" kisses that made him feel utterly loved and cared for. He let it continue for several minutes, his pulse still calming as he recalled the virus that not even a few minutes ago had been squeezing the life out of him, attempting to consume him, now touched him as if he might break. He didn't even know why he panicked so much. Maybe it was that what freaked him out: maybe it was the fact it felt like rope, and he had been having a nightmare about the hanging (again).

Maybe he had been crawling through a crypt on his stomach, the mud oozing through the armor and making him cold and clammy, and the bugs crawling all over him, rats biting his boots and hands as he pushed them out of the way. That could have been what he was dreaming about. Or perhaps there was something with snakes, which Altair had a healthy respect for and Ezio flat out hated. That could have been it.

Either way, he turned his head and kissed Alex slowly. As long as he was still with his lover, he wouldn't mind it if the man consumed him. He would've readily given his all to his lover, and his life would've been nothing—certainly easier than giving it to the Order. But as he kissed him, he realized that he was perfectly content giving him a reason to believe, if even for a few minutes, that he was human.

* * *

><p>033 Expectations—<p>

Altair had high expectations for Malik. That was just how it worked. He needed Malik to be strong and sturdy to help hold up the Brotherhood. He needed Malik to be bendable and flexible to deal with unforeseen problems that arose. He needed him for everything. The man was so much to him that he couldn't actually explain why he needed him so much, just that he needed him or else nothing good could happen.

Malik would never say it, but he had high expectations for Altair. They were usually masked by something such as, "Finding this information isn't too hard—is it, Altair? I know the novices can do it."

Altair was a powerful figure. He was hands-down the best figure they could have for the face of the Brotherhood. He commanded respect no matter where they went. When Altair entered the room, people knew. He was that powerful. He was extraordinary. He was so much "better" than Malik could ever hope to be. Of course, he had been robbed of the chance to be that much better: there was no respect for a cripple in their society. Malik was jealous, in a way. Not that he was jealous of the attention he got, but that he was jealous of the attention he got because he was such a powerful assassin.

Sure, Malik was strong—in his own right. But that strength didn't measure up to Altair's. There was nothing he could do to make up that difference.

And that was why he stayed to do the dull bookkeeping that running an organization needed. Altair was a great leader, but he was less than satisfactory with actually keeping it kept recorded and documented. Sure, it would stay afloat, but when something was needed for proof or such, it probably wouldn't even exist. So he tried to help that way. It was the least he could do, and it was suitable work for a cripple, since he couldn't be an assassin any longer.

Still, there was one thing that Malik kept getting higher and higher expectations for. Sometimes, when the day was done, it was a particularly stressful day—to the point where Malik would have his face planted in the stack of papers on his desk and a well of ink knocked over as he grumbled to himself while the ink ran in the dips between the stones of the floor.

He would feel two hands clamp on his shoulders, and he would hiss, the tense muscles protesting being clamped down upon. The grip would loosen, and slowly, surely, he would get a shoulder massage. It hadn't been too great at first, but then Altair asked around and got experience under his belt, and, as he had always been able to do, took off with it. After two years, he could make Malik melt at his desk with his shoulder massages, and he did feel a little special since Maria (the only other person he gave a shoulder massage) got them much less.

And that helped when he felt as if he was insignificant to the Order, because if he was special enough to get a massage like _that_, then maybe he was more significant to Altair than he realized.

* * *

><p>034 Stars—<p>

Desmond would never say it, but he was addicted to the Animus. Not because he needed to have his daily dosage of "not his life," but because he got to see things that, in New York with Alex, he didn't get to see. When he went back into the Animus at the headquarters, they all knew not to disturb the Grand Master. Only Alex was allowed to watch.

He sat in the chair, that "I missed this" look on his face, and he reclined slowly, rubbing his hands on the fabric as he eased in, smiling at his lover as the visor was put over his eyes. The needle pricked his arm, and Desmond immediately located the memory he liked so much.

He woke in the castle of Masyaf, blankets in his arms, and paced down the corridors. Altair's feet were silent as they passed over the dirt and dust from that day. His cloak tails fluttered behind him with every step, the soft whisper of air singing that day's deeds passing beneath them. He paused momentarily outside of his most hated doorway, smirking as he walked in and stood there. Malik scratched at his work, and Altair waited patiently until Malik tidied up and blew out his candle, leaning back and staring at him as he stood in the doorway momentarily.

Then, Malik rose and paced over, saying nothing as he passed through, and they stole out of the castle, down to the lakeside. Altair spread one of the blankets over the sand, and Malik watched closely. They said nothing. Once it was spread, Altair settled down on top of it, shivering slightly but waiting for Malik to join him. He sat down, moving snug against him to keep his unprotected side covered. He lay back, and Altair spread the other thick blankets over them before snuggling in close to his lover. They lay side-by-side on their backs, looking up at the sky.

This was the part that Desmond loved so much.

There were dozens of stars—hundreds, millions, billions. Neither he nor Alex got to see them much in New York: the light pollution was terrible. But that was okay, because he had this to let him see them.

They were so ethereal as he watched them, the warm body beside him. The stars were bright and untouched by fake light. The black in between each one seemed to want to draw him in, begging him to go into the sky and explore. Each one twinkled and sparkled, danced and played in the sky as he watched them with satisfied interest. They were gorgeous. It was as if there were billions of diamonds stuck in the sky, the razor edges cutting through and showing him just a glimpse of what lay beyond the cover of the night sky.

And slowly, he felt himself drift off to sleep, one arm around Malik's waist and the man's breath against his chest, cuddled in close in preparation for the cold desert night. Altair reluctantly drew the blankets above their heads, curling against him to share body heat.

Desmond had the memory fade, the visor pull back, and he stayed there, trying not to break the tranquility of that moment. Alex pulled him out to their bedroom, cuddling with him underneath the covers. He loved his life.

* * *

><p>035 Hold My Hand—<p>

Altair was a romantic sap sometimes, Malik mused. He could as charming and sweet as he wanted to be, but most of the time he didn't. Of course, Malik's version of "romantic" was having the Grand Master refuse to meet his gaze and offer him some eagle feathers. His version of romantic was after a good, hard dicking, Malik would be able to lie beside him and fall asleep. His version of romantic was stealing quick kisses in rooftop gardens, trying not to get found out.

There were also times he was needy. Sometimes, after Altair fucked him, he would hold him tenderly and kiss him softly, and Malik allowed it solely on the basis that he was even more insufferable when he didn't get his way. He loved cuddling after they had sex, and he blamed it on Maria. The woman did enjoy it, Malik agreed. He had slept with her as well. It was this neediness that irritated him. But then again, it was also what made him feel good about himself. It let him know he was more than just a means to release for him.

Altair also had irrational fears. He would think that an assassin of Altair's standing wouldn't be afraid of something as simple as a _snake_ or a _scorpion_. But he was. And it was hilarious to watch. He claimed it was just a "healthy respect" for the animals, but when Malik dropped a non-venomous serpent on him in the middle of the night, the man woke with a holler and a shout, flinging the snake off as if he were bitten. It was a phobia of snakes—which was fine with him.

But this was probably his favorite phobia. This was, above all, the one that never failed to make him snort in amusement as he watched the man fidget and squirm.

They were in Acre, checking in on the status of the Bureau there, and it was still early. Malik was used to talking a walk in the early morning, the crisp air making him feel alive again. It woke him up from the sleepiness and comfort of dreams with his brother. And of course, as Altair was so inclined to do, had invited himself along for the idea. It was a leisurely stroll through the marketplace and down to the docks, where Altair had insisted on jumping around for a while on the posts.

But when the man had slipped and barely managed to catch the post, not sparing himself the expense of getting his boots and pants wet, he looked like a kitten. A drowning kitten. Malik rolled his eyes as he offered out his hand. He didn't voice his thoughts aloud—it would only make the man sulk. The man stared at it as if he was crazy, but Malik offered again. Altair growled.

"I don't need your help, Malik. I am capable of jumping—"

"Come down from those posts, novice. Hold my hand, novice, so I can stop worrying about you drowning on me."

* * *

><p>036 Precious Treasure—<p>

Altair watched out over the gardens. Three young boys played there, hiding among the skirts of the visiting dancers as the women laughed and cooed. Two of them were roughly the same age, and the third one, the youngest, was hobbling along, trying to keep up with his brothers. It was as if he was watching something from the past.

Darim held Sef's hands, occasionally picking him up and running as Tazim chased them. Sef was shrieking with glee as his brother let him ride piggy-back. Tazim chased after them mercilessly, eventually stopping and tugging on one of the skirts. The woman looked down, and bent down to hear him whisper. She laughed quietly and nodded, walking away. The boy waited patiently, until she returned with a foreign treat, and he took it, darting off after the brothers.

There was a flash in vision. Quick, but haunting and unrelenting. It was of a blue-eyed boy riding on the back of his dark-skinned brother. They were playing in the bushes that grew like weeds, being chased by a golden-eyed boy. The brothers were off like a shot, nimble and agile, using all sorts of tricks to lose the other boy. The older stopped to let the younger one run away with a happy scream. The chaser paused, critically analyzing his two targets before darting after the little boy with a treat in his hand. It wasn't too much longer before the older of the brothers had scooped up the other and darted off again.

And suddenly, his sons were back, and he was watching as Tazim offered out the treat. The women were watching and laughing as Sef was immediately distracted, squirming on his brother's back. Darim stopped, looking over his shoulder and saying something. The smaller boy pointed at Tazim, who was wearing a smug look as he held out the treat. The littlest pointed again, saying something to his older brother, and the boy frowned. Sef squirmed again, and Darim sighed, going to let him down.

But Sef wasn't going to have that, and he clung like a spider monkey, speaking rapidly to his brother, who snapped something back, and the little boy was winding up to cry. Darim looked utterly alarmed, and moved the boy around to his front, scowling as he carried the boy over.

There was the blue-eyed boy reaching out eagerly, a smile on his face and not realizing he had cost his darker-skinned brother the game. The golden-eyed boy smirked triumphantly and offered it out. The boy shrieked happily and closed his tiny hand around the sticky bun, biting into it and causing the golden-eyed child to laugh and murmur something. The older brother scowled, spitting something as he let his brother down while he ate, and the chaser clamped a hand on his shoulder. The brother glared at it, hard, as hard as a small child could. The littlest one munched merrily on the treat.

And as the two older boys grabbed a hand on the smaller one once he was done eating, Altair blinked, and his boys were back, walking hand-in-hand with Sef. He couldn't help but smile.

Sometimes, the past repeating itself was okay.

* * *

><p>036 Eyes—<p>

When he held the newborns, the first thing he did was check the eyes. It was the eyes that clued him into the father. He and Malik shared the same woman, just as they shared each other and their bed. They were one and the same, despite the differences, and everything they had was each other's. Maria had given birth to three healthy boys. Each one of them had different eyes, but each one told Altair exactly which man should hold the child first. Malik didn't understand it, but he knew. And Maria always agreed with him, and everyone knew that the mother's instinct was ultimate ruling.

When the first one came, it was his. When he had held that tiny, pink bundle for the first time, he was overwhelmed by the golden gaze staring straight back at him. He had been frozen in his spot. It had been alarming to hold such a fragile life, and he had been so afraid of hurting the child he couldn't move. Those golden eyes were fierce and innocent, and they had told Altair that the child was his. They said the child was his offspring, and not Malik's. Wide and unblinking, the baby's eyes had stared at him until the process of being born took its toll and the baby fell asleep.

Little over a year later, another child had been born to them from Maria. Altair had peered over the midwife's shoulder, and when he saw dark brown eyes, he knew it was Malik's. He said as much, watching the surprise form on the man's face, and Altair smirked. When Maria agreed and the precious bundle had been passed to the rightful father, Altair stood there, stroking his wife's hair as she slept. He smiled warmly, kissing her forehead, and Malik seemed so much more at ease with a child than he had. Of course, Malik had always better with children—even novices, though he never showed it.

And now, another year later, he stood there, holding the newest child. Maria had sworn off childbirth forever from here on out, and he chuckled as he looked at the baby's eyes. They were glinting gold. The child was his. He took the swaddled bundle from the midwife's arms and smiled, much more at ease with a baby now. It cooed quietly, squirming in its swaddling clothes. The gold was much less pronounced than in Darim's eyes, but there was no doubt the child was his. There was more of Maria in him, but that was okay, and he leaned in and kissed the baby's head.

He was blessed—he knew. He had two strong baby boys, and a wife who gave three children that now played together, reared as brothers despite the different fathers. They trained and played together, learned and fought together. They were two brothers and a half-brother, Altair thought but that was okay, because they were closer than that. They were brothers, friends, and warriors together, and there was no bond stronger than that.

* * *

><p>038 Abandoned—<p>

The first time Desmond walked out on Alex, he wasn't expecting such a drastic change. He had gotten sick of all the tiny nitpicks the man often made, the "Why not do this?"s or the "My way is easier/better/faster"s. He was fed up with it, and so, in the middle of an argument about whether it was better for him just to let Alex carry him to work, he clenched his fists, narrowed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and fell silent.

Of course, Alex noticed immediately. He could at least give him credit for that. Still, when his lover had reached out to touch his cheek, he jerked away.

"Fine then," he had hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously, "if I'm so incompatible, go find another. Perhaps Shaun, hm? Since you're both _exactly alike_."

He had hoped that would strike deep into Alex's heart. Deep enough it would hurt, because Alex knew that Desmond and Shaun had had a brutal break-up. He walked out, shutting the door behind him, and he found himself at a patron's house. The woman was a regular at the bar, and they had become good friends. She was surprised to see him there, but accepted him in with open arms. As he stepped in, he turned off his cell phone and stuffed it in his backpack, determined not to check it for a long time. When Alex appeared at the bar, he let the other bartender take care of him. It went like this for several weeks.

And then, in the middle of a large blizzard, one where he would be sitting on the porch with Alex and rocking in the chair in, there was a knock at the door as he made dinner for him and his flat mate. He looked when he heard someone clear her throat, and he looked to see Dana standing there, frowning, and he paused. Alex was beside her, staring at him almost piteously.

"What?" he growled.

Alex looked at the ground, his hands rubbing together as Dana crossed her arms, giving her brother an expectant look.

"Please," Alex murmured, still not looking up.

"What?" Desmond growled, turning back to the food. "No, I'm not coming back. I'm sick you and all your Shaun-like problems. I thought I had found someone different."

He tensed when he felt arms around him and lips against the back of his ears.

"Never again. Don't leave me. I'm sorry."

Desmond's eyes widened, because in all of the break-ups and get togethers he had with partners, never once has he heard those words. He twisted to look, and Alex was reluctant to let go. He met the man's gaze, and then he understood. Alex had always viewed himself as a monster. He confessed once that Desmond helped him feel less like a monster. He said it was because of him that he was learning to keep things in check—so long as he had him to return home to every night.

He was afraid of being abandoned and left with just himself.

* * *

><p>039 Dreams—<p>

Desmond had dreams. He had plenty of them. When he was on the Farm, he had dreams of seeing what lay beyond the gates. He had dreams of the open road and all the different things he'd see. He had dreams of finding a cool job and learning what life was really about aside from living in a prison. He had dreams of cool things to do and getting friends that weren't all content with living like sheep in a pen.

When he had escaped, his dreams changed. He had dreams of owning one of those awesome two-wheeled motorbikes. He scrimped and saved as he travelled across the nation, one step ahead the paranoia, and two steps behind safety. Once he landed in Manhattan, he had dreams of becoming something awesome, and he had. He raked in the top pay at the bar.

When the Infection hit, he simply had dreams of surviving. He holed up in grocery stores, pulling in children and their parents to share with them and migrating with them to protect them when the store ran out. He had dreams of becoming a Marine one day, to protect himself and those few precious people he herded from point A to point B.

After that, he was kidnapped, and his dreams rapidly changed from there. At first, all he dreamed of was escaping. Of course, he doubted that would actually happen. He found himself falling in love with Lucy, and he ended up dreaming of her. He dreamed lots of things about Lucy: about getting married, about having a child, about fucking her senseless.

Those changed when he met Shaun, and all he dreamed about was getting out of there alive. Those days with Shaun were pleasant enough he was content enough just to dream about getting out of there with both him and the historian alive.

Then the break-up and Lucy's death, and he was content just to dream about being dead for a while.

After he met Alex, he dreamed of maybe someday starting a relationship with the man.

And now? He didn't need to dream anymore. He leaned against Alex, one arm around his waist as he played with the golden band on his finger. He knew the virus was watching him mess with it out of the corner of his gaze, and he couldn't help but smile slightly. He had a home; he had the assassins; he had his moonlighting-bartending job; he had an incredible lover, and he had the best ending to his life he could have hoped for. He sighed, content, as Alex flipped through the stations on the public TV channels.

"Stop here," he said, fussing with the ring.

Alex's hand dropped to his lap, and he adjusted against him as he twisted the ring on his finger. It was his new favorite play thing. He realized that he valued the ring immensely, and he stopped, blinking.

"Desmond?" he heard Alex ask.

He smirked and straddled the man, linking his hands behind his lover's head and leaning in to kiss him as he played with the ring.

"Have I ever showed you just how thankful I am for that ring?"

Alex looked shocked, then confused. "It's just a—"

He didn't let him finish as he kissed him deeply.

* * *

><p>040 Rated—<p>

Altair's life was hard. That was pure fact. He had too much to do and not enough time to do it in. He was head of the Order; he was a master assassin; he was a father, and he was a husband. There was too much for him to handle.

On a scale of one to ten, he would often mention when someone would ask, with ten as the highest, his job was a million and three. It was ridiculous trying to balance all of his work. There was so much to do it overwhelmed him, and he spent his days restoring the Order. He worked relentlessly, seeking solace a few hours each night with the Apple. He knew that he didn't have the time, but he couldn't help himself. He just needed a breather.

Finally, he wizened up and moved Malik back to Masyaf against his will. The man had hissed and seethed the entire time, threatening to sic guards on the poor novices who were tasked with bringing him back. When he reached the castle, the first thing he did was punch Altair in the face and tell him he was a loathsome creature. Altair had staggered, gritting his teeth, and when he saw the faces of the assassins and the novices around him, he had to blink. Then, his head fell back, and he started chuckling. He couldn't help it, and Malik's shocked expression was even better. He gestured to the looks around him, and the man took them all in before laughing himself. Altair knew it was the right decision to bring him back.

He tasked Malik with most of the book work, which the one-armed man begrudgingly accepted because he knew that Altair didn't have the attention span to do something like that. Nevertheless, he made him master of sword-training to keep him active and regularly called upon him when one of his children were ill. He found himself able to spend more time with his family and with Malik, and he was happy. He was thrilled.

He had hoped he wouldn't have to miss much of his children's lives. He was able to eat with them—not in his study. He was able to talk to the novices and the assassins now—not hole up with the Apple. He was able to take his time having sex with his wife—not ignore her in favor of finishing something. He had his life back, thanks to Malik. Of course, Malik demanded payment in return, one that Altair was all too willing to give, to submit to him and let him take him every-so-often. He lived a good life. Hard, but good. He had a wonderful wife, two incredible children, and an unbelievable lover who could take on anything.

Now, on a scale of one to ten, he would often mention when someone would ask, with ten as the highest, his job was a three.

It would never be easy, but Malik was certainly large help.


End file.
